Cruel Harvest: A Memoir

By Fran Grubb

"Get out here, now, or I'm gonna kill you!" he hollered.

Little girls are hardwired to hold their daddies in high esteem, so it comes as a shock the first time a daughter feels the back of her daddy's hand across her face . . . or watches him punch and kick her mother to within an inch of her life.

How could this be? Her older sisters teach her how to survive, even when he comes for her in the night.

A girl learns to become invisible, to look the other way, to say nothing when a curious stranger asks if she's okay. To lie. To expect nothing, not even from relatives.

To cry without tears.

To pray silently.

When she is fourteen, and weary, a girl begins to wish she were dead. Cruel Harvest is the compelling story of how she lived instead.

Endorsements:

"A story that seizes the reader's attention . . . the reader can't look away." ?Publisher's Weekly

 

“Fran Grubb's childhood odyssey is a shatteringly dark tale of despair.  But that's not the end of her captivating life story.  Each page of Cruel Harvest reveals a remarkable journey of rescue and redemption. Your heart will be moved as you witness Jesus' power to deliver, forgive, reconcile, rebuild, and love.” —Denalyn and Max Lucado

 

 

“Cruel Harvest is an incredible story of survival and forgiveness. Fran’s ability to survive brokenness as a child and even into adulthood and then to overcome those experiences through faith and forgiveness is a true testament to the power of God’s love for each of us. Everyone can be inspired by her story.”—Sheila Walsh, author of God Loves Broken People and Women of Faith speaker

“Against all odds, Fran survived her trip through the "valley of the shadow of death." I loved reading this story of deliverance. Thank you for the reminder that God can turn our mourning into dancing!”—Gracia Burnham, former hostage and author of In the Presence of My Enemies

“Fran Grubb’s heartbreaking story is ultimately one of triumph against all odds. Cruel Harvest is well-written and riveting. It’s unimaginable that Fran could face such daily horrors and come out with such grace, wisdom, and generosity. You will be deeply moved!” — June Cotner, author of the bestselling Graces and 26 other books, www.junecotner.com

“It is hard endorsing Cruel Harvest with just a few words.  I want everyone to know how powerful her story is and how many lives it can help change, and is currently changing. Ever since reading Fran Grubb’s story I have used it to help numerous clients that are victims of childhood violence. Every woman has commented on her faith and how her book has given them hope!  We are putting the book in our library for all the ladies to read.” —Vicki Mason, Primary Crisis Interventionist, Women's Crisis Services of LeFlore County, Poteau, Oklahoma

“This was a wonderful book. We could feel the faith of the child throughout every page. We highly recommend Cruel Harvest.” —DeWayne and Rebecca Hicks, Founders of Courage to Change Ministries, Greenville, Arkansas

“Cruel Harvest will touch your heart clear through to your soul!  I guarantee that you won't be disappointed and you won't be able to put it down.” —Pastor Ray Witherington, Midnight Cry Ministries / Restoration Revival Center Church, Townville, South Carolina

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Aug 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781595555069

Fran Grubb

Fran Grubb travels across the southeast United States with her husband, speaking at churches, tent revivals, prisons, women's shelters, children’s homes, and drug or alcohol rehabilitation centers. D. James Kennedy featured Fran in his "Reclaiming America for Christ” campaign in 2003. Fran and and her husband are founders of a nonprofit organization called "Feed the Hungry Children." When Fran was told about starving children in Kenya and shown photographs of the women and children picking up grains of rice off the ground, she was moved to help. She and her husband, Wayne, were instrumental in building a church in Kangundo, East Kenya, and they have sent money for clothes, food, and school supplies, as well as electronic equipment and a bicycle for Titus Kakonzi, a minister in a small village in Kenya. Fran has two children and five grandchildren. She and her husband live with their dogs, Banghor and Little Bit, in South Carolina.

Book preview

Praise for Cruel Harvest

A story that seizes the reader’s attention . . . the reader can’t look away.

—Publishers Weekly

"Fran Grubb’s childhood odyssey is a shatteringly dark tale of despair. But that’s not the end of her captivating life story. Each page of Cruel Harvest reveals a remarkable journey of rescue and redemption. Your heart will be moved as you witness Jesus’ power to deliver, forgive, reconcile, rebuild, and love."

—Denalyn and Max Lucado

A deeply harrowing story, told with compassion and simplicity, by an extraordinarily brave writer.

—Anjelica Huston

"Cruel Harvest is an incredible story of survival and forgiveness. Fran’s ability to survive brokenness as a child and even into adulthood and then to overcome those experiences through faith and forgiveness is a true testament to the power of God’s love for each of us. Everyone can be inspired by her story."

—Sheila Walsh, author of God Loves Broken People and Women of Faith speaker

Against all odds, Fran survived her trip through the ‘valley of the shadow of death.’ I loved reading this story of deliverance. Thank you for the reminder that God can turn our mourning into dancing!

—Gracia Burnham, former hostage and author of In the Presence of My Enemies

"It is hard endorsing Cruel Harvest with just a few words. I want everyone to know how powerful her story is and how many lives it can help change, and is currently changing. Ever since reading Fran Grubb’s story I have used it to help numerous clients that are victims of childhood violence. Every woman has commented on her faith and how her book has given them hope! We are putting the book in our library for all the ladies to read."

—Vicki Mason, Primary Crisis Interventionist, Women’s Crisis Services of LeFlore County, Poteau, Oklahoma

"This was a wonderful book. We could feel the faith of the child throughout every page. We highly recommend Cruel Harvest."

—DeWayne and Rebecca Hicks, founders of Courage to Change Ministries, Greenville, Arkansas

"Cruel Harvest will touch your heart clear through to your soul! I guarantee that you won’t be disappointed and you won’t be able to put it down."

—Pastor Ray Witherington, Midnight Cry Ministries / Restoration Revival Center Church, Townville, South Carolina

Cruel

Harvest

A MEMOIR

9781595555052_INT_0003_001

FRAN ELIZABETH GRUBB

9781595555052_INT_0003_002

© 2012 by Frances Elizabeth Grubb, aka Fran Grubb

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [e-mail].

Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

Scriptures marked KJV are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grubb, Fran E.

  Cruel harvest : a memoir / Fran Grubb.

      p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59555-505-2

1. Grubb, Fran E. 2. Grubb, Fran E.—Family. 3. Sexually abused children—United States—Biography. 4. Kidnapping victims—United States—Biography. 5. Migrant labor—United States—Biography. 6. Abusive men—United States—Biography. 7. Fathers—United States—Biography. 8. Escaped prisoners—United States—Biography. 9. Dysfunctional families—United States—Case studies. I. Title.

  CT275.G787A3 2012

  973.92092—dc23

  [B]

2012004553

Printed in the United States of America

12 13 14 15 16 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the Creator and giver of all good gifts: I love you and I know that I owe this book to you. I give you all the glory, honor, and praise for every sentence printed in this story.

This book is yours, not mine.

To Wayne, whose love, support, and encouragement has kept me going year after year, through the churches, tent revivals, nursing homes, and prisons, and who keeps me laughing.

For all the times I may have forgotten to say thank you for carrying equipment, singing harmony, reading the Bible, navigating before the GPS, your wonderful sense of humor even after three meetings a day, and for never losing hope. Thank you!

Thank you for throwing out all the rules about love, listening to your heart and proving there are no rules or limits to unconditional love.

To Wayne, who has the heart of a child and the courage of a lion. Can I ever show you how much you mean to me? I hope this dedication is a start.

Cruel Harvest was written for all the adults and children who find themselves asking, Why? I pray you find the answer in these pages. God knows your name and has written your name on his hand!

(Isaiah 49:16; John 10:3)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Family

Chapter 2: The Train

Chapter 3: Murder

Chapter 4: A Child’s Innocence

Chapter 5: Baby Girl

Chapter 6: On the Run

Chapter 7: Arrest

Chapter 8: One More Piece

Chapter 9: A New Life

Chapter 10: Not What It Appears to Be

Chapter 11: First Day of School

Chapter 12: The Orphanage

Chapter 13: A Safe Harbor in the Storm

Chapter 14: A Changed Man

Chapter 15: Taken

Chapter 16: Attempted Murder

Chapter 17: In the Arms of Angels

Chapter 18: On the Run Again

Chapter 19: Choices

Chapter 20: Another Child Lost

Chapter 21: A Trap Set

Chapter 22: Bobby Willoughby

Chapter 23: Spiders

Chapter 24: Mr. Spencer

Chapter 25: Alone

Chapter 26: Courage to Run

Chapter 27: Freedom!

Chapter 28: One Last Battle

Chapter 29: Forgiveness

Chapter 30: The Reunion

Acknowlegments

Author’s Note

About the Author

Prologue

His fist shattered the glass panel of the back door the instant I turned the lock to keep him out.

His fiery, red face, twisted with unbridled rage, glared at me from outside the glass top half of the kitchen door. The only thing separating us was the jagged windowpane.

I stood still for just a second, frozen in shock as I looked into his evil, angry eyes. Shards of glass exploded inward toward me, some cutting into my forearm and head, the rest falling to the kitchen floor. He reached his calloused hand through the broken window to unlock the door. My shock was quickly replaced by fear, and I ran through the house to get to the front door as though the devil himself were chasing me. He was!

It was 1963 in Benton Harbor, Michigan. I was fourteen, and this little house was one of the best I’d lived in during my childhood. It had three rooms set in a line like train cars: the kitchen in the back, a bedroom in the middle, and a small living room at the front. I tore through that dark house as fast as I could, slamming into the front door. I had locked it only minutes earlier to keep him out. Now he was in the house with me and I could hear his footsteps and feel the rasp of his enraged breathing. I had only seconds to slide the bolt back, throw the door open, and leap from the house as if it were burning down behind me.

The front door opened to an old wooden porch with a sagging tin roof. Snow blanketed the front yard, rising up to cover the bottom two steps leading off the rotted decking. I jumped, my legs sinking a foot and a half into the drift. The cold air cut through the ragged clothes I wore. I remembered my coat was inside, but so was he. There was no going back in.

Millie and her young daughter, Mary Anne, were standing by our old car in the snow-covered front yard. A tattered cardboard box of blackened pots and pans lay beside it. I had dropped them before running back into the empty house, hoping the sound of clattering pans, lids, and pots would be an alarm in the still night and somebody would come to save me.

I heard him crashing through the house behind me just as I sailed off the porch. Little Mary Anne came chasing after me into the yard. The moon shone so brightly off of the snow that I could see her big, dark eyes pleading with me to take her along. She screamed my name as I dashed past her. She did have her jacket on, but at five years old, the snow was up to her waist in some areas and I worried she would get lost.

Millie, grab your daughter! I yelled.

I never slowed down as I turned away from the dirt road that ran in front of the house and plowed through the deep drifts to reach the covering of the woods at the side of the house. Clumps of snow fell from the pine branches in the yard; ice rolled down the back of my dress and burned my cheeks like fire. I knew that if I stopped, the pain would be much worse when he got his hands on me. I had no doubt that he would kill me just as he had killed my baby sister eight years earlier.

Mary Anne screamed again, louder this time. Her little voice echoed harshly through the night. It tore at my heart. A part of me regretted running off because I knew I was leaving that little girl behind. I could only hope that her mother would take care of her. For me, it was too late. I had to do it now. The decision had been made, and there was no turning back.

As her mother dragged Mary Anne back to the car where she had left the baby, I heard Daddy running behind me. I did not dare turn around but I was sure he was way too close. If he got his hands on me, I was finished. He was not a big man, but he was strong, especially when he was in a rage.

I was young enough to stay just ahead of him, jumping through the high snow. The muscles in my legs were burning like fire. As I finally reached the tree line and dove into the woods, the pine branches raked against my already cut forehead and arms. My blood left a faint red trail behind. I could only hope he couldn’t see it.

Once in the shadows of the pine trees, I slowed down to catch my breath. My chest heaved, and I doubled over, trying to listen above the sound of my own breathing. My heart pounded in my ears. I couldn’t hear him, but when I straightened up and looked through the canopy, I could see him. He stalked back and forth through the heavy drifts. When he got near the tree line, though, he hesitated. For some reason he did not plunge into the woods behind me. I don’t know what made him stop, even to this day.

Standing still, staring out at him as he paced like a hungry lion, the cold seeped into my bones. I had to start moving, or I’d be in trouble. As quietly and as carefully as I could, I inched along the edge of the woods in what I hoped was the direction of the main road.

I stumbled. My foot hit something big buried in the snow, and I fell across a huge, old, hollowed tree lying on its side. The front of my dress ripped, and the splintered wood tore holes in my knees. To my ears, my fall sounded like an avalanche crashing down the side of a mountain. I was so sure he’d heard; I froze in my tracks. My exposed skin was pressed against the ice and the bark of the fallen tree. I listened, and what I heard froze me far deeper than any snow could.

"Get out here, now, or I’m gonna kill you," he hollered.

He continued to pace. Frances! I’m coming in there, and I’ll find you! You hear me?

I held my hand over my mouth, trying to hide the sound of my breathing. My entire body was shaking. I knew he was telling the truth.

Through the pine branches, by the rays of moonlight striking the side yard, I saw him stop his pacing. His arms hung by his side, limp. I swore he was looking right at me. I clenched my teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter.

When he called out again, his voice had changed.

Come on out now, Frances. He spoke the way a man is supposed to speak to a child, maybe even a little too sweet. Nothing is going to happen. Come on out now.

That tone of voice made me feel the pain. My body was dangerously near frostbite already. My calf was stuck to the frozen wood and my heart could not stop hammering in my chest.

At the same time, that tone made me remember. He had made promises before. I thought about Mary Anne. She had changed so much since her mother had married him. When I first met her she was a funny, happy little girl, laughing and playful. Now, she barely spoke. I was leaving her behind, possibly to share in the terrors I had experienced in the past. I knew that, and I felt awful about it. But my choice had been made, no matter what voice he used. I knew it would only be worse if I turned back now.

As I watched, my eyes wide and brimming with freezing tears, he lunged toward the woods. Something kept him back. Lurching like a crazed animal, he started his pacing again. I could see his body tensing up, his hands balled into hard, pain-dealing fists. The past crashed down on me like a tidal wave. My doubts shattered.

Millie called out. Come on, leave her out there. We gotta get going before somebody hears us.

Then, while he continued to holler at me, he unbuckled his belt. Pulling it free from the loops, he lashed at the frozen tree branches.

I’ll kill you! I’ll find you, just like I did last time. But this time I’ll kill you! So help me God, you won’t get away from me!

It wasn’t an idle threat. No matter how much I had hoped for help, it was not on the way. I was a migrant child, alone. I could disappear, and no one would know the difference. The rest of my family had escaped. I was the last one under Daddy’s power. And no matter what, I would break free or die trying.

Chapter 1

Family

When I was nine years old, Daddy abducted me from an orphanage in South Carolina. It was 1958, and he had just escaped from a California prison where he had been serving a sentence for raping my oldest sister, Brenda, and attempting to murder my mother. For years he abused me in every way he could. At one point, my family consisted of two parents, three sisters, and two brothers. By the time I was fourteen years old, they had all escaped one way or another. Everyone but me.

My decision to write down my story began with my husband’s encouragement. He felt I could help others as well as myself by public speaking. I started slowly, revealing intimate details at speaking engagements with the hope that my life would help others. I was amazed when hundreds of people, every place I went, wanted to hear more. After a few years of traveling, speaking at churches, prisons, women’s meetings, rehabilitation clinics, and orphanages, sharing my story with the audience and talking to men and women who had gone through similar experiences, I was certain he was right. Many men, women, and even children had never discussed their abuse before. I experienced how hearing what I went through helped people work out the troubles in their own lives. This is why I want to tell about these events in such detail—why I don’t want to hold back. It’s the beginning of healing for others.

One day, my husband, Wayne, drove me to a doctor’s appointment. It was a nice spring day, so he decided to sit in the car and wait for me. When we left the house, he had grabbed my writings off the table and brought them with him to read. Why he chose to do that, I am not sure, but I found it touching that he cared enough to read my words again for at least the third time. He’s a quiet man, polite and gentle in his ways, tall and handsome in my eyes. Meeting him is one of the many amazing blessings I have been awarded in my life.

Wayne began to read when I got out of the car.

Wow, Honey. Are you going to read that again? I asked, smiling down at him.

It’ll give me something to do while I wait, he said, glancing through it and smiling as I shut the door.

I left Wayne and attended to my appointment. I cannot even remember what I was there for. What I can remember is walking back out to our car and finding Wayne, still sitting in the same place I had left him, with tears rolling down his cheeks. He turned and looked at me when I got in the car and closed the door.

Are you crying because of what you read? I asked.

Wayne didn’t say anything. I slid into my seat and gave him a hug. We sat together in the parking lot as tears ran down his face.

Don’t worry about it, Honey, I whispered softly. That was a long time ago.

Wayne smiled, but there was determination behind his eyes. I could tell he had made a decision, and that he was up to something.

I had lived my adult life without any family other than my two children and Wayne. I remember wishing I could be like everyone else and have brothers and sisters and parents. I would have settled for a great aunt. When Christmas or other holidays came around, I celebrated, but there was always something missing. It was almost as if my family had not existed; as if they had become just what I feared they would—a story.

Wayne had siblings, aunts, uncles, and a mother and father, and they treated me with kindness. I was happy for him. Still it made me sad to see the family pictures he had hanging up all over our house. It was so different for me. I had forgotten what my sisters looked like.

Wayne knew how I felt, and on his own he decided to do something to grant my wish. He decided to find my family. A few weeks after my doctor’s appointment, he came to me with a phone number for my sister Brenda. I had not seen her in almost forty years.

Making the call was very difficult. I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe, I thought, she’d want to leave the past dead and buried. I couldn’t blame her for that. But instead, she invited Wayne and me to her home for Thanksgiving dinner.

We arrived at Brenda’s home in Mobile, Alabama, and were welcomed with hugs and tears from her children and grandchildren. They had a beautiful home, full of laughter and life; Brenda was raising three of her grandchildren. When I first walked in the door, the aroma of turkey, stuffing, pies, and gingerbread was like a fantasy come true for me. I felt at home, as our childhood home should have been.

Her kitchen was warm and cozy even though it was open to the rest of the house. The cabinets were cherrywood, and she had white, starched-lace doilies on the top shelves. An antique butter churn stood beside an old milking stool, and a large Raggedy Ann doll sat on the stool. Brenda stood on the tile floor by the stove in her bare feet. When I walked into the kitchen and saw her for the first time in decades, she had a spatula in her hand and wore a wide, white apron, folded and tied around her middle. Hello, Sissie. I whispered the nickname I had grown up calling her. She crossed the kitchen floor in two strides and wrapped her arms around me. We hugged, and I felt I had found peace. It was what I dreamed coming home would feel like.

I stared at my sister, taking her in as if she were the embodiment of the years I’d lost. She hadn’t changed that much. Her sweet face was still very pretty, but now she had gray hair with touches of silver. She had gained some weight, which made me think about our hunger as children.

We pulled up chairs to the kitchen table and began catching up with each other and sharing our life events. All around us, her children and their spouses, her grandchildren, my husband, and people I didn’t know yet filed through a buffet line she had set up on her long kitchen counter, filling their plates with baked ham, roast turkey, cornbread stuffing, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, apple dumplings, and corn on the cob. Brenda loves to cook, and she loves to see people eat. Children crowded around the table with their plates filled, others wandered off to the dining room, and some took their food to the family room. All the while, Brenda waited to eat until everyone in the house had settled.

As we sat with our plates, talking just loud enough to be heard, a young man came to the back door of Brenda’s house. He seemed to be in his early twenties—a good-looking boy. He walked right into the kitchen without knocking.

Do you have any eggs we can borrow? he asked. He opened her refrigerator and started gathering what he wanted as though it happened all the time.

Brenda stood up and introduced me to her young neighbor and invited him and his wife to come and eat with us. He politely declined, saying they would stop by later. She handed him a bowl for the eggs, they exchanged a few kind words, and the boy walked back out of the house. Awhile later, someone else came by to borrow another Thanksgiving ingredient. I leaned over to one of Brenda’s daughters, my niece.

It’s like she’s running a grocery store, I said, smiling.

I laughed and chatted with my sister and her family, and Brenda held my hand, but I noticed she never laughed herself. Although she was kind, she didn’t seem happy, and she never really smiled with her eyes. I was bubbling over with pure delight, but there was a somber air about Brenda, even as she served and comforted everyone else. I could tell she was happy to see me, but it never showed in her face. She just never let loose a single chuckle. I avoided the subject of the past; it seemed that she had been scarred so badly and affected in a way far deeper than I could ever know.

Still, watching Brenda share with everyone deeply touched me. Later that night, while I was still thinking about Brenda’s kindness, I bumped into one of her sons while getting some tea from the refrigerator. After looking at me for a second, my nephew said, I’ve never seen my mama smile the way you do. I’ve never seen her look happy.

There was no way to tell how much he already knew. I determined that was up to his mom to decide, so I vaguely referred to the tough childhood she’d endured and led him back to the family. We talked the night away on happier subjects.

Time flew by. I can honestly say that up to that point, it was like nothing I had experienced before. On that night I felt the first inkling of being part of something bigger. The feeling only grew as family members sleepily peeled off to go to bed. In the end, it was just Brenda and me at the dining room table. Although her voice was gentle and sweet, she still did not smile.

You remember that train? Brenda asked.

I shuddered. The memory sent a chill through me. I shifted in my seat and nodded.

You were so afraid of the trains. Brenda almost whispered, as though unsure of how I would react.

I remembered. I did not want to talk about it, but I didn’t want to interrupt

Reviews for Cruel Harvest

[acovarrubias-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I don't usually read memoirs, but I thought I would give this one a try, and I am glad that I did. Fran lives with her siblings, mother and her father. They live in poverty and are always moving around a lot. Fran lives in fear of her father, but she never expresses hatred toward him, even though he is mentally and physically abusive to all of his children and his wife.

Fran and her sisters had to suffer sexual abuse from their father. She constantly lived in fear wondering what abuse she would suffer each day. Her mother was never their to protect her or her siblings, and she abandoned Fran at a very young age. I have 2 children and I can not imagine this. I can't even comprehend it.

Fran and her siblings had to work in the cotton fields at a very young age, from sun up to sun down. Most days they did not get to eat and on the days when they did it was only a bologna sandwich. They had to sleep at night on covers that never got washed. They all had share one washcloth to wash up at night.

Mrs Grubb didn't get to experience most things that children do today. Such as a loving and happy family life. Running around carefree and happy. She longed to go to school like all of the other children, but wasn't allowed to.

Fran tells the story from her point of view as a child and as an adult. The story goes back and forth between the two. This book was very hard for me to read. I had to put it down several times while reading it, and walk away. It was hard for me to comprehend how a parent could do such horrific things to their children.

I will admit that I found myself hating her father. I was so angry at him and wanted to scream. I know that you are not supposed to hate and nothing ever comes of it, but I could not help it. This book was very emotional for me.

As a child Fran had her faith in God to help her through and she often prayed. Her faith in God is what helped her through her very difficult childhood and now also as an adult. Throughout the book Fran talks about her husband and how he has helped her heal.

I found myself wanting to rescue her as the little girl. I admire her very much, and because of her love for Jesus she forgave her father for what he had done to her. I am not so sure I could have done that. Cruel Harvest is a very good book, but as I said it is very emotional and at times really hard to read.

I received a copy of Cruel Harvest from the publisher through Book Sneeze to review and give my honest opinion.

[pattymclpn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was about Fran's life as a daughter of a migrant worker. It is a tale so sad and heart twisting that you keep reading looking for a glimmer of hope in her life. Fran and her siblings do not have an easy life and her father is a terrible person. It is hard to believe that in this country some children still grow up under these conditions. This is a true story about the harsh realities of life.